


Cupid Is No Longer An Archer

by little_ogre



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Everybody Lives/ No one dies AU, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, Just Working My Way Through the Cliches, M/M, Matchmaking, Post Rose Creek, Recovery, xena levels of historic accuracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-07 12:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18410537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_ogre/pseuds/little_ogre
Summary: Sam saw how it was of course, in a single glance. The way Goody held himself, defiant and tense at Billy’s introduction, the silent way his eyes darted from Billy to the group, to Sam, protective and wary. Sam obviously had the advantage of knowledge, of Goody’s character, of his inclinations, but once you knew the signs were easy to spot.“That’s how it is, you and him?” he asks later, jutting his chin towards Billy on the other side of the fire and Goodnight’s shakes his head quickly.“Ain't nothing like that, and he doesn't know a thing about it so don’t go telling tales and giving him ideas either.”In which Sam, by means of Faraday, basically trolls Billy and Goodnight into confessing their feelings.





	Cupid Is No Longer An Archer

“Cupid is no longer an archer, his glory shall be ours; for we are the only love-gods.”

Much Ado About Nothing, Act 2, Scene1

*

 

Sam saw how it was of course, in a single glance. The way Goody held himself, defiant and tense at Billy’s introduction, the silent way his eyes darted from Billy to the group, to Sam, protective and wary. Sam obviously had the advantage of knowledge, of Goody’s character, of his inclinations, but once you knew, the signs were easy to spot.

 

“That’s how it is, you and him?” he asks later, jutting his chin towards Billy on the other side of the fire and Goodnight’s shakes his head quickly.

“Ain't nothing like that, and he doesn't know a thing about it, so don’t go telling tales and giving him ideas either.”

Sam held up his hand placatingly.

“I can see when things are none of my business,” he says mildly.  “Just want to see you content, is all.”

“Well, no cause to bark up that tree,” Goody answered, face shuttered.

 

Sam could see only a fool would accept that answer. Goodnight Robicheaux and Billy Rocks were dancing around each other, never one out of arm’s reach, tightly packed together to be strong where the other was weak. And Sam had a growing suspicion that Goody only thought that Billy knew nothing about the feelings that could grow between two men because he was fighting like hell to keep Goody unaware of them.

It was evident in the way his carefully blank countenance would soften and warm, the smiles bestowed on nobody else, the casually protective tilt of his body, passing Goody his own handkerchief for his bleeding wrist, lighting two cigarettes instead of one as if he didn’t have to think about it, a natural movement, the two of them together.

It was even more evident in the stillness of his face after Goody left, his quiet determination in drinking the bar dry, like a man keeping still to avoid jostling a wound, a hare keeping still on the ground under the soaring shadow of the hawk. Still, as if avoiding detection would allow the danger to pass, the wound to close, the pain to dissipate. 

It's evident in the blinding smile at Goodys shout when he returns, and the way they curve together, tightly under the rain of bullets of the Gatling gun and maybe, Sam thought, Billy Rocks didn’t know a thing about it, but he did look like a man with an idea or two of his own.

 

*

Recuperation is slow in the aftermath of the battle of Rose Creek. They might have been victorious but that doesn't mean they weren't beaten, and beaten hard, slow in springing back like trampled grass.

The Elysium has gone from a raucous saloon to a makeshift infirmary, with pale, recuperating ghosts occupying the upper floors instead of vivacious, hard-eyed, working girls.

Billy wakes to stinging pain and the even more stinging indignity of two older, matronly women in respectable calico dresses changing his dressings and taking a good look around while they’re at it.

“Never been in the backrooms of a den of iniquity before,” one of them says, giving the faded rose wallpaper a sharp look. She looks more than pleased to rectify this deficiency.

“Really?” says the other one drily, washing Billy’s side with quick efficient movements. “Well, you seem to know your way around enough for all that. Wasn’t like you needed any directions getting here.”

“A lady is at home in any company,” the first sniffs and starts snooping around in the corners. She experimentally jostles the bed frame, making the springs squeak and Billy jounce painfully. “So is this where it all happens?” she says. “Seems a bit weak if you ask me. Why, when my Elmer got going you wanted a proper foundation beneath you, can tell you that.”

“I don’t believe anybody did ask you,” her friend cuts her off, starting to re-wrap Billy’s side and shoulder, and he really wishes he could slide back into forgiving unconsciousness again, instead of having to hear these two terrifying old biddy’s swap war stories. There are things his ears are too innocent to hear and he is in too much pain to cover them.

“Your Elmer has been dead a good ten years, rest his soul, and would turn in his grave if he ever heard of you stepping foot in a place like this.” 

“Well, he would certainly rise in it,” the other one cackles and Billy tries not to not as much as twitch and draw attention to himself but it's already too late.

“Look what you did, he’s awake, _and_ he’s blushing,” the severe woman says, gesturing to Billy accusingly. “Lord knows he’s bled enough not to have any to spare for his face.”

She turns to Billy and peers down into his face intently.

“Would you like a bedpan, sir?” she asks, enunciating each word slowly. “To relieve the pressure?” she continues, as if her meaning wasn’t horribly clear. 

“We could be very helpful with the bedpan,” the other leers and gives Billy’s lower half, covered by a sheet, a speculative, and deeply terrifying, look.

It is probably the worst awakening with injuries he’s ever had, and that’s really saying something.

 

*

Apart from the agonising pain and indignity, he’s surprised he’s not dead. He was shot full of more holes than a sieve and it was a close thing between the blood loss and one of the bullet wounds festering. When he finally came to, Billy had lost days to fever, blazing white hot until it finally broke and he started to heal. Everyone with minor injuries were already on their feet and the rebuild underway.

Billy looked down on the bandages all over his torso and the shoulder, he felt mostly resembling a mummy he’d seen at a traveling show once. He felt about as spry as that frail cadaver, more dead than alive. His left shoulder had been torn to shreds, and in order for it to heal the arm had to be immobilised across his chest, lest he’d move and pull something out of alignment before it was properly healed.That was anyway what the harried doctor told him, a pale little man with spectacles who looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. Billy suspected it was mostly to hassle and make a spectacle of him, it wasn’t like he could move the arm anyway. It wasn’t as if he could move enough to tear anything with what was actually a hole in his lung. 

He’d been afraid to ask about Goody, the last of his memories blurry but he knew it wasn’t any good and however bad he’d had it, Goody had had it worse. And he also knew that if Goody had been on his feet in any capacity he would have been there, or come once Billy was properly awake, but he wasn’t and nobody had mentioned him.

As Doc was packing up his bag he’d started with inquiring the band in general, conspicuously asking for no one in particular; asking instead how all seven of them had fared and was told that Sam, the Indian and the mexican fella all had made it through on their feet. Horne had been shot full of arrows but was recovering and then there was that fella what blew himself up, and the twitchy confederate who’d taken a fall from the belltower.

“Oh,” Billy said, the room seeming to spin and he put an arm around himself, pushing his fingers into his wounded shoulder, the pain clear and excruciating.

“Yeah, laid out in the room next to yours, in quite a state you understand.”

“Can I?” Billy croaked, “can I see him?” To see him, cold and still, always so animated and warm would be horrible, but to not see him, would be infinitely worse.

“You're not up to being up and about just yet, and he won't be moving in a long while,” Doc says indifferently, peered at something in his bag and Billy flinched.

“I meant, before they bury him,” he said, the words forcing themselves out. “Can I see him before that?” 

“Bury him?” Doc said in surprise. “ Well, God willing there is a long time before we need to do that. He ain't dead son, by the skin of his teeth.” 

And the room tilted and spun, and voices were shouting at him and it didn’t right itself until he could see Goody, stretched out with a leg in a splint and Doc was shouting and Billy is leaning against the wall because his legs can’t hold him up any longer and he managed the last steps, sinking down on the floor next to the bed holding Goody’s cold hand in his own, just breathing.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Doc said. “I didn’t think you’d be walking for at least a week.” 

Goodnight has, with his usual flair for dramatics and disdain for half-measures, not only managed to get thoroughly shot, he also has several broken ribs, a fractured arm, a splintered collarbone and a broken leg, and a concussion, as the icing of a very dubious cake. He sleeps most of the time, on heavy doses of laudanum, and is seemingly lost in a daze when he’s awake.

Billy counts them lucky to be alive, he never expected as much, he only hoped he wouldn't have to survive Goody. He counts them all lucky. Even Faraday has made it, laid up a couple of doors down, still smelling of gunpowder, blood and recklessness.

 

The third day he drags himself down the corridor and into Goody’s room Doc orders his bed moved and then Billy can watch him breathing just by turning his head. He stations himself on the side, on his good shoulder and just stares. Now and then people come into the room and if they get in his line of sight towards Goody or the door he gets agitated. He thinks one of them might be Sam and then maybe Emma, she’s saying something about gratitude but she gets in his line of sight and he hisses at her, shooing her away impatiently until she leaves and he can settle again. They don’t understand, they don’t know about the owl, about its treacherous ways and how Billy has to be the vigilant one now when Goody is so weak and ill.

He gets better, slowly. Soon he’s able to sit up, and then eat his own food and manage his own private needs, which is a fucking relief. Billy doesn't want to see another bedpan until the day he is on his _actual_ deathbed and even then he's seriously considering just holding it.

He watches Goody anxiously, not quite able to get up and hover when the Doc, or a few of the women conscripted as nurses, comes in to tend him, but he does his best, half rising in the bed, eyes watching their every move.

After a week Sam comes to talk to him about it.

He makes polite noises at first, and then sits down, out of the sightline so Billy can listen and watch Goodnight at the same time, getting straight down to business.

“The good ladies of Rose Creek has come to tell me, to tell you, that if they wanted to kill Mr Robicheaux while changing his bandages they wouldn’t have bothered tending his wounds for a month first. You, however, I understand, is first in line for getting smothered with a pillow if you don't let up.”

After this Billy tries to stop glaring, he is also reluctantly accepting that Goody might not die if he takes his eyes off him for a second. It’s just that Goody tends to do stupid shit when Billy leaves him unattended, and he doesn’t see how that’s about to change just because Goody is unconscious (Goody, or course, would claim its the other way around, he can’t leave Billy anywhere because Billy does stupid shit like get into all-out bar room brawls, climbs buildings or ludicrous sharp shooting competitions, but what Goody doesn’t understand is that Billy just needs something to do with his hands when he’s away, he worries so much).

After a week of Goody showing steady improvements Mrs Frankel manages to persuade Billy to take a break from his vigil while they changed the bed-sheets.  At this point he’s reasonably sure that Goody will neither die nor wake up in his absence, and is in a slightly more coherent state himself. Goodnight slept more calmly now and his breathing was less laboured, he’s able to wake up for short stretches of time, even if he wasn’t particularly lucid.

Billy had recovered sufficiently to walk short stretches unaided, and he is at least allowed to be in the outhouse by himself, even if he needs help getting in and out. He used his temporary holiday to make the short trip down the hall to Faraday’s room, clutching at the wall the whole time.

Faraday is lounging in his bed, possibly even more bored than Billy. Doc had said it was good for him to get an airing so most days his window will be wide open which at least allows sounds from the street to filter in. On the window sill there is an array of random objects set up. Why they didn't just  move him downstairs and make up a bed next to the bar was more than Billy could understand. Probably because nobody trusted Faraday around combustibles yet, he was so singed he was still practically sparking. God only knew what would happen if he was placed next to anything flammable.

Having been very nearly blown up had not really had a dampening effect on the man, he was still the same annoying, bright presence, only a couple of fingers less, and more scars, his good looks not so much ruined as refined. Now one of his green eyes are flanked by a network of scars and once they have faded, and the eyebrows grow back in, it promises to give him an adventurous, roguish look. Their conversation was vague and fairly amiable, mainly concerning pain, food and what they would do when recovered, until Faraday leaned over and cocked an eyebrow conspiratorially towards Billy.

“So, you and Goodnight, how long have you been riding together?”

Billy looked out the window, to the horizon out beyond Rose Creek, trying to think.

“‘Going on three years now,” he said slowly, it felt like an eternity.

“Hmm” Faraday said and took a drag of his cigarette (nobody would confess to actually giving him any, he just always seemed to have them). “And how long have you been _partners_ , if you know what I mean?”

“Partners?” Billy asked, momentarily thrown by the insinuant tone of Faraday’s voice and when Faraday gave him a suggestive wink it suddenly dawned what he meant. 

“You know, things being “like that”?” Faraday smirked. _“Pole to hole and soul to soul?”_

He said it with an expansive gesture and a knowing smirk, leaning on his elbow in the bed. For a fleeting second Billy was actually pathetically grateful that Goody was unconscious and didn’t have to be subjected to the ordeal of hearing that particular phrase with his own two ears, Goody always so sensitive to language. There was also the matter of trying to scrub it from his memory, and effort Billy had a feeling would be in vain. It was going to be echoing inside his skull for a long time to come. And then the meaning registered, like a kick to his stomach. Billy didn’t flinch but it was a close thing, his fingers twitching so violently around the cigarette he accidentally knocked burning ash into his lap, hastily brushing it aside with stinging fingers and a curse.

He felt completely taken by surprise. It wasn’t like that, not in the slightest. Between him and Goody was nothing but pure friendship.

Sure he _wanted_ it to be more, but Billy wanted a whole lot of things he ain't never was going to have. Goody had never given any inkling that he was interested, and Billy thought that he had successfully managed to conceal his feelings. However if _this_ idiot was asking, who could hardly be accused of being a deep and canny type, then it must be painfully obvious for the world to see. 

For _Goodnight_ to see.

The thought sliced like a cold knife down his spine. His jaw clenched and there was a wild buzzing in his ears, his thoughts rattling like a runaway train. It was only the long self discipline of concealing his reactions that allowed his breathing to continue untroubled. For a moment Billy felt overcome with a rush of paranoia; what would an innocent man say? There _was_ honest to God nothing going on, but protest too much and it might look suspicious. Should he act shocked that Faraday had even had such a thought, or would that betray that it was on his own mind constantly?

If he protested too little it might leave Goody’s reputation in tatters and, like it or not, sometimes that reputation made their living. He took refuge in silence, silence had served him well in the past and would be more convincing  than any outright denial.

Swallowing around the pain in his throat, he treated Faraday to a long blank look, and it was blank, he _knew_ it was blank. He’d endured so much pain to learn to be that devoid of expression.

“Anybody ever tell you you talk too much?” he said and Faraday laughed.

“Seeing who’s your bosom companion, I’d say that's a bit rich.”

Billy slowly took a drag of his cigarette to stall for time, it was strange smoking a whole cigarette to himself, he was used to adapting the rhythm between his own and Goody’s rabbit fast breaths. Smoking a whole cigarette only reminded him who wasn’t by his side. He’d wanted Goody here for this, he would have known how to do it right, deflect the question or offered a plausible denial, or simply laughed it off, making a joke and pinching Billy’s cheek.

Billy felt as if he’d been shot in his most vulnerable spot, blindsided and betrayed by something he thought had been hidden and secure. He felt that to even mention it, to form the words to deny it would betray how much he actually wanted it.

“See, Goody talks and I shoot,” he said eventually, his voice admirably even (but wasn’t it a little rougher, a little bit more winded than usual?). “So in three years I’ve never had to threaten anybody, just stab them after, if it didn't take, and I'm a bit rusty. I'm just trying to remember how it goes.”

He showed Faraday his empty hand, closed it and opened it to reveal the blade he always carried in his sleeve, and then the hand was empty again, as neat and fast as any of Faraday’s card tricks. Faraday rolled his eyes.

“Yeah I get it, super fast and scary, yeah, yeah. But you haven’t actually answered my question, of how long you’ve been “riding” together, if you catch my drift?”

Billy could feel his neck burning as his mind caught on to some of the more colorful images connected with that word but his face didn’t move a muscle. He knew it didn’t move and clutched desperately at that knowledge.

“Faraday...” he growled, willing the man to take the hint and back off. “No one is riding anything -”

“Because, you know,” Faraday cut in with gratingly good humor, wiggling his eyebrows, “they say there is another story to how he earned the name “Goodnight”. That he is, you know, A Good...”

 

Vasquez, luckily nearby and called by the commotion had to forcibly pull Billy off Faraday. Billy was cursing in Korean and trying his level best to kick Faraday even as he was dragged away.

As fights go it’s been pretty pathetic, Billy with his arm in a sling and still weak as a kitten and Faraday not much better; but there was still some satisfaction in punching his smirking face even if a literal child could probably do it better, and Billy took satisfaction where he could get it these days. Faraday, bastard that he was, kept laughing and hooting even as he kept his hand over his scarred brow bone and wincing.

“Christ, güero, what is wrong with you?” Vasquez said, “Doc spent six hours on that shoulder, if he tears it killing you Doc is going to bring you back to life just so he can kill you himself later. What the fuck did you say?”

“I don’t rightly know, but I _think_ I just insulted a lady’s honor,” Faraday laughed and Vasquez had to brace when Billy tried to lunge at him again.

“And you!” Vasquez said to Billy, shaking him like a cat. “Just what the hell are _you_ trying to achieve? The man just survived an explosion, and you’re going to what, _lie_ on him to death?

 

As soon as Billy got back to their room he slammed the door, Vasquez had more or less carried him back by the scruff of his neck, which was a whole new level of humiliation, and now he was standing inside on trembling legs.

There was Goodnight, sleeping, so white and still in his bed, one leg splintered and bandaged, and there was Billy’s bed; where he slept chastely thank you very much, all the way on the other side of the room, a respectable distance between them. Billy ignored the distance and sat down on Goody’s bed. He felt completely exhausted, not only from the fight but from the kick of adrenaline and emotions.

He carefully eased down on his side, lying next to Goody, his hand half open between them. He was just going to rest for a second before lying down in his own bed, but he was so tired, he needed a second before crossing the vast ocean of floor. Just rest for a little bit was his last thought before sleep pulled him under, tucked into Goody’s side as neatly as a penny.

 

*

 

Goody had been passing in and out of consciousness, blinking his eyes to see a strange room, only for it to be overtaken by visions of his childhood room, faces that were familiar but he couldn't put a name to and faces unfamiliar morphing and changing. The pain had been like a sting plucked, humming through it all. But now he opened his eyes to the sight of Billy asleep next to him, his hair like a black, inky stain on the pillow, sweaty bangs sticking to his forehead. His lashes was a dark sweep towards his gorgeous cheekbones. He looked pale, his usual healthy complexion faded and worn.

It always stunned Goody just how handsome he was, how it was strange that everyone didn't stop when he walked into a room, just in sheer awe. How nobody noticed that the most handsome man in the world had just walked through the door.

And now the most handsome man in the world was sleeping in exhausted slumber on his pillow. Almost dreamily Goody tucked his fingers into Billy’s half opened hand, pain and laudanum had lent the world a warped dreamlike quality, making him much more careless than he normally would be. Normally he would never let Billy see anything so damming but now he felt muzzy and like the moment existed solely on its own, not connected to any consequences. He suspected that Billy knew he wanted him, that if he ever could find the courage to tell him it would come as no surprise, and if Billy already knows, why force the issue? Nothing good can come of the fact that Goodnight can’t make his heart or body obey his rational mind.

At least Billy has shown no distaste for him, shown no sign of wanting to withdraw from their steady companionship, no matter Goody’s rotted core and desires. Telling Sam, so long ago about who he preferred bedding had been difficult enough, even without any interest in bedding Sam complicating the matter. But here Billy is, passed out in his bed and Goody thinks its more than he ever thought he could have.  

He blinks and when he opened his eyes again Billy was sitting on his bed on the other side of the room, with one arm in a sling, carefully sharpening a knife and Sam was sitting on the chair next to Goodnight’s bed. 

“Hello there,” Sam said, looking pleased as punch.

“Hello Sam,” he answered and a slow blinding smile spread over Sam’s face and Billy sat up as if stung, knife clattering to the floor.

“Do you know that’s the first time in weeks you’ve known me?” Sam said and Goody just feels confused. Why wouldn’t he know Sam, he’s one of his oldest and best friends?

“That so?” he asks, and slowly, in the way that the first stirrings of dawn was almost invisible yet unmistakable the full misery of his body became apparent. He felt terrible, every part of him aching with a dull, miserable pain which throbs and echoes and seems almost to leap from place to place until not one part of him is untouched. Unable to suppress a groan, he sunk further back into the bed. 

“That so,” Sam said confidently and in the meantime Billy got up to quietly place his free hand on Goody’s shoulder.

“I didn’t know you either?” Goody asked, looking up at him and Billy gives him a small nod, the shimmer of a smile hanging around his mouth, his eyes warm, and Goody gives the hand on his shoulder a quick apologetic squeeze. Things must have been pretty dire indeed for him to not have known his Billy.

“What d’I do?” he asked, surveying the battlefield that is is body, one of his legs stretched out and splinted. The pain feels strange somehow, not the roaring burning acute discomfort of a fresh injury but dull and muted as if he’s felt it so long he’s forgotten about it. 

“You fell off a church spire,” Sam tells him mildly and Goody glares at him.

“Now Sam can’t you see I’m injured? Have you no shame to be funning like that with a sick man?”

“Oh I wish I was funning,” Sam said, dry as dust. “You got shot by a Gatling gun and then took a swan dive off the bell tower. Billy here contented himself with merely getting shot.”

“Well, Billy has always been more sensible,” Goody conceded and then turned sharply. “Hold on here, you was shot?” he asked Billy, worry etched in every line of his expressive face and his hand unconsciously reaching out to find Billy’s again. Sam’s eyes flickered for a second between the two of them, a difficult to define expression on his face.

“Only a little,” Billy said, squeezing his fingers in response before letting go and Goody snorted.

“Faraday was blown up,” Billy pointed out, with the air of a child at telling on a worse culprit. “He survived it though,” he added, sounding a touch disappointed.

“Hm,yes, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,” Goody commiserated, nodding.

“I’ll find you some food,” Billy said and with a final little pat to Goody’s shoulder, practically scampered out of the room.

“That’s the happiest I’ve seen him in a good while,” Sam said, looking after Billy. Goody was gazing fondly after him too, his eyes already starting to droop in sleep.

 

 

*

 

A few days after Goody’s return to lucidity Billy is slowly walking up the stairs, his set exercise is to make it to the bottom and then up again. He usually need a rest once he’s down but the saloon is a busy place these days so at least there is something to watch. He’s nearing the top of the stairs when he hears Faraday and Goody’s voices. Faraday still can’t get around on his own but Horne or Vasquez usually carts him around on visitations. It’s not as much of a trial as they pretend it to be, any annoyance these days is mostly feigned. Billy covertly watches him for any signs of how he can have sussed out his secret but has to come to the reluctant conclusion that Faraday is just more perceptive than he appears. If the exasperation in Goody’s voice now is anything close to genuine though it seems like he is back to his old ways.

“What do you mean you _don’t?_ ” Faraday says disbelieving and Billy hears Goody groan.

“Lord, son do you want me to explain it in writing? We just don’t, same as it is when you don’t.”

“Is it because you don’t think he likes fellas? Because I’m reasonably sure he does.”

“Likes fellas?” Goody says, sounding stunned. “Do you really- “ he starts and then breaks off, starts on another tack. “Tell me something, do you think the complete failure of your ill-favoured attempt to woo Mrs Cullen had something to do with her not _liking fellas_ and not everything to do with her being so above you you might as well not inhabit the same universe?”

“Hey, there is no need to get personal,” Faraday says, affronted. 

“I’m just trying to explain it’s the least of the problem,” Goody growls and Billy wants to go in there and stop whatever this is but he feels frozen on the spot, leaning closer to the wall to eavesdrop unobtrusively.

“So you’re honestly trying to tell me that the two of you don’t? You’re not at all?”

“I’m not sure how much clearer I can be,” Goody says, his voice strained. “We’re just friendly, that’s all.”

“Oh no, I’ve had friends and it ain’t never been like that, sharing everythin’ down to your underwear like you do. Never had a friend I’d lend as much as my ammo, no nevermind letting them smoke cigarettes straight from my mouth.”

“Perhaps you’ve never had very good friends?” Goody asks pointedly.

“That’s what I’m saying!” Faraday rejoins, with the air of somebody bringing up irrefutable evidence. “ _Nobody_ has that good friends, lest they are friendly in other ways too.”

“Faraday, can’t believe these words are about to leave my mouth: Billy and I are not engaging in any conjugal activities whatsoever and you’d better drop the insinuation before I take unkindly to it,” Goody says, in a rapid burst, every word enunciated so clearly it might as well have been chiselled in stone, but there is an odd tone in his voice, a slight tinge of...regret?

Faraday snorts, “You and I both know your rifle is way on the other side of the room and you are as bed-bound as an upturned bug. And you can’t ask Rocks for it without telling him what you need it for.”

“He’d not ask questions if I said I wanted it to shoot you,” Goody says icily and there are not a lot of men who would take that tone from the Angel of Death without a shiver.

Billy’s heart is hammering and his hands feel cold, worse than any fight he’s ever been in. Goody sounds...unhappy. Not indignant that Faraday is casting aspersions on his manhood but more like he’s poking at a sore spot and Goody is trying valiantly to protect it, protect himself. And what was that about Mrs Cullen turning Faraday down because she was above him? What’s that got to do with Billy and Goody?

“All I’m saying is the two of you are close!” Faraday says.

“Yes, we’re close,” Goody says, voice tight and low, and Billy wants to go in there right now to put a stop to this because nobody should make Goody sound like that, all sharp edges and broken shards. 

“So the thought must have crossed your mind. Out there, no skirts for miles, and the two of you all up in each other’s business the way you are. Just convenient for you.”

The thought had crossed Billy’s mind, many, many times. The two of them, when the fire is getting low, passing a bottle from hand to hand and Goody a warm, tempting presence along his side; how easy it would be to just slide a little closer, tip his head and lean into the crook of Goody’s neck, letting his mouth blindly find skin and see what happens.

The problem is he can’t reasonably see it going anywhere good (he can _imagine_ it very well, and he has on several private occasions, but he can’t really see it), can’t see Goody groaning, rumbling through his chest and tilting his head back letting Billy undo his waistcoat, buttons and flies, kissing smoke and whiskey from his lips, laying him open until they are both hazy with pleasure, but rather the tense hand on his shoulder, the avoiding eyes, the flinching smile and the cold distance. Better to not dream of what he can’t have, foolish desires, and instead focus on what’s there. There is nothing wrong with what’s there, even if it’s sadly lacking in the trousers department.

Goody makes a noise, that’s halfway between a laugh and a groan. “You wouldn’t wipe your nose on the Turin shroud just ‘cause it happens to be there,” he says.

“I...I  don’t even know what that means,” Faraday answers, sounding perplexed. Billy don't know what it means either, if he's being honest.

“It means...there are other things to consider than mere proximity. Or even compatibility.”

“Prox?..Is that a fancy word for the clap? Because if that’s the problem you can just say so.”

“The problem,” Goody spits out venomously, “is that he is so far above me both quality and beauty we couldn’t be mentioned together in a month of Sundays, and that even the notion that somebody of Billy’ outstanding qualities could so much as look at me is so laughable natural inclination becomes entirely irrelevant, and that’s all to say on the subject and if you raise it again I will shoot you myself, owl or no owl.”

“Owl?” Faraday says, sounding stunned and Billy can hear Goodnight breathe in and then breathe out slow, before clearing his throat.

“The owl might be irrelevant,” he concedes. “But I find that laudanum makes me a great deal more talkative than I find comfortable and it would be a great service to me, and indeed to yourself if we just act like gentlemen here and pretend I never said such nonsense.” 

“Yes but,” Faraday says, perplexed, “where does the owl come in?”

Billy can’t breathe, he can’t breathe. “So far above me in both quality and beauty…” Goodnight thinks Billy is beautiful. Goodnight thinks Billy would reject him. Goody thinks Billy is so far above him it doesn’t even matter if Billy has an interest in men or not because he still wouldn’t be interested in Goodnight. His head is spinning so fast it’s threatening to take the whole stairs with it.

“Faraday, why are you so interested in my private affairs all or a sudden?”

“Me? I’m just curious. That’s who I am, a curious fellow. But as you say it’s none of my nevermind, takes all kinds to make a world and all that, I say.” 

Goodnight says nothing for a while, the quiet spreading in the room and then Billy can hear him shift about in the bed.

“I don’t know about you,” he says “But I sure do miss the days when a conversation didn’t left me hankering for a nap. It’s like the old age I never expected to have.”

“Tell me about it,” Faraday says, obviously accepting the peace offering. “I feel like my grandpappy. Nothing but naps, soup and breaking wind.”

“Not in here you don’t,” Goodnight warns, “Some of us are bedbound in here.”

“Naw, a fresh smell of wind is healthy,” Faraday says cheerfully. “Good for the humours.”

Billy turns on his heel and sneaks quietly down the stairs, his head so full he hardly knows what time of day it is.

 

He makes it to the stables, not quite sure how. The horses whickering quietly and the warm musty smell is comforting, horses are easy company. Billy paces the stable, so confused he can't make head or tails of anything. What was it really that he heard?

It ought to be simple, just say he overheard Goodnight and Faraday speak and that..if his surmise was correct...that if Goody would like to..to change their partnership so that it included other sorts of... physical intimacies he, Billy, would indeed be amenable to that change. 

He sighs, all of those words are words Goodnight has taught him, and he's never said half of them aloud. He doesn't know what he himself would say, in his own words. He never needed that many words with Goody; for all that the man loved to talk he seemed to understand Billy's silence just fine. Well, with one vital omission because Billy used his silence to tell Goody he loved him every day.

Thinking it over now it made a certain sense. Like calls to like, and even unspoken as it was, he believes he must have recognised something in Goody, that they must have recognised something in each other. Maybe not straight away but after a while, the way they were both so careful of each other's past and prying, unguarded questions. Goody never pressured Billy to talk about past conquests or to use their winnings for visiting cat houses, whiskey and opium having been their vice alone.  They’ve been riding together for three years and he can’t recall Goody ever having a woman. He had assumed that it must’ve happened but now he can't actually pinpoint a single occasion.

It must seem silly, the two of them so intent on guarding their secrets they can't see what's right in front of them.

And at the same time, Goody must have thought that he’d known. He could remember the handful of times Goody gotten drunk enough to call him _chér_ and how blushingly he apologised afterwards, as if he had overstepped, pressed his attentions where they weren't wanted (except Billy hadn't been able to decide what charmed him more, the pet name or Goody’s blush afterwards). He'd just always assumed that Goody was affectionate towards his friends like that, but Goody was friends with Sam and never called him anything.

Sam, who had affectionately straightened Goody’s hat when knocked askew, who called Goodnight Goody, and tucked his blankets in better when he came to visit. Billy had tried to ignore the bolt of jealousy at the time but now it flared through him.

If Goody had told anybody about himself it would have been Sam and Sam was a very handsome man, solicitous and caring towards Goody when he was recuperating and that was enough to turn any man’s head. Wasn't people falling in love with women who nursed them left to right in those penny romances Goody always read? 

Sam could  _not_ be about to sweep in and scoop up what was rightly Billy’s just because he was too timid to speak. He hesitated, Goody probably would be upset if he stabbed Sam without explaining why. Probably.

Goody tended to be pretty understanding when he stabbed people but usually they were not dear friends of his. Just the thought of _dear friends_ makes Billy want to stab Sam, maybe just a little. In his hand or so, for him to understand that it belongs nowhere near Goodnight.

One of the horses whicker lowly and pulls Billy from his murderous reverie. This is probably not a situation which can be resolved by stabbing something. A lot of situations can, but not this one. No, this one is worse, he is going to have to _talk_ to Goodnight about it.

In theory this should be easy, they have a pretty good history of talking to each other, for a taciturn man he’s spent a lot of time talking to Goody. But using words to make himself vulnerable makes Billy prickle with unease. Theoretically he risks his life for a living, fast draw duels, sharp shooting and back alley fights, and a conversation with a friend shouldn’t be half as bad. Still he can feel adrenaline rushing through him, hands cold and clammy and heart beating against his ribs. There is nothing for it however,better to do something than watch Goody ride into the sunset with Sam, and Billy squares his shoulders and sets off, he thinks he might have walked to his own hanging with less trepidation.

 

Goody was playing chess against himself when Billy came into their room. He envied him his ability to walk down the stairs but he didn't grudge him. The first days of Goody’s return to the land of the living they didn’t do much beyond lie in their beds and stare at each other, unblinking like two cats, unwilling to take their eyes off each other even for a second. They’ve grown a little less desperate since then but it still makes Goody antsy if Billy is away too long. And he's been away a good long while now.

Sam had brought the little foldable chess board as a way to pass the hours, and he is playing against himself by making a move and then turning the board around, making a counter move. Billy gave him a very long, eloquent look over this process but as he didn’t offer to play with Goody, he can frankly hold his piece. 

Coming back in Billy seemed restless. His hair’s standing on end, as if he’d been scrubbing his hand through it. It's still down, neither he nor Goody can manage the knot one-handed. It makes for a unusual change, the dark hair framing his face instead of neatly tied back. Billy paced up and down the room, as well as he could, the room being small and Billy not very well yet. He stopped several times, drawing breath and letting it out again as if he’s about to speak. It’s not really a mood Goodnight has seen before, usually Billy’s exterior gets calmer the more agitated he is. It’s always when his face gets as still as a millpond that Goody knows to expect trouble.

He kept glancing over at Goodnight and then looking away hastily, thumb and fingers rubbing together absently as if he’s missing the weight of a knife. Goody had an inkling where this was going, they hadn’t really discussed his cowardly flight from Rose Creek, apart from Goody trying to apologise one late night and Billy waving him away. He really hopes Billy isn’t gearing up to stab him, on the one hand it would be handy, he could just lump it in with everything else that needs to heal, on the other hand, he’s already in so much pain he really doesn’t need any more. 

Eventually Billy stopped and turns to face Goody, his strong shoulders squared and a frown on his face. He shouldn't really look intimidating, wounded and half dressed as he is in an undershirt and trousers, his usual shirt and waistcoat forgone in deference to his arm and shoulder, but he does. He looks like the real Angel of Death, beautiful and terrible come to bring righteous justice.

“May I sit?” he said, glancing over at the empty space by Goodnight’s hip. Goody was bemused, Billy was normally not this formal, if there was no space for him he usually poked Goody painfully in the side until he made room.

“Be my guest, what can I do for you?” Goody said with an expansive gesture, jokingly mimicking Billy's formal tone and Billy sat down facing him, ankle crossed over knee, next to his injured leg. He kept his eyes firmly to the ground, his hair falling into his face. 

“I, I heard you and Faraday talking earlier,” he said, face angled away from Goody, his jaw unhappy and tense.

“Oh?” was all Goody managed, with transparent nonchalance, suddenly finding his own hand on the blanket terribly interesting, a black sinking feeling in his chest; Billy continued in the same measured, careful tone.

“He, earlier before you woke up, asked me the same thing,” Billy’s dark eyes darted up to meet Goody’s, the contact sharp and startling as a pinprick and Goody could feel heat flooding his face as fast and as suddenly as if he'd been slapped.

“Your answer was better than mine,” Billy continued, slow and hesitant, voice rough as if he was dragging each word across gravel. “When he asked me..I, I couldn’t even deny it because I thought he would hear..” Billy cleared his throat and his hand flexed, “...I thought he would hear how much I wanted it to be true,” he finished, his inflection carefully neutral and Goody looked up in disbelief, eyes wide and shocked. Billy was still not looking at him and there was a faint blush gracing his beautiful cheekbones. 

“What?” Goody said, entirely unable to follow, the sentence twisting away from him, the meaning too unbelievable.

“I…” Billy said, his voice hoarse and then, because Billy Rocks was a lot of things but timid and shy had never been any of them, his warm ungloved hand lifted and carefully trailed over Goody’s cheek, gently cupping his face before he leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft, with just a hint of the sharp teeth hidden behind his lush mouth, Billy’s hand warm and dry on his face, the tip of his tongue curling wetly and enticingly against Goody’s mouth, mustaches scratching. It was a hesitant thing, Billy's breath stuttering, and over too fast, sparks dancing up and down Goody’s spine and the phantom sensation of Billy’s lips still against his. For a second Goody thought he had dozed off, and slipped into a wonderful dream and that the Billy in front of him would any second melt away and vanish. 

“Nothing to say?” Billy asked, in the ensuing silence, lips twisting into a smile.

“No?” Goody said and then failed to say anything else.

“You look like a fish,” Billy said and his smile widened, into the big gorgeous, almost goofy one, with all of his teeth that Goodnight had only seen a handful of times.

“Oh, hush your mouth,” Goody replied and Billy broke out in soundless laughter. He pulled Billy in for another kiss, his hands fisted in Billy’s undershirt , kissing him slow and wet, with serious intent. Their options were sadly limited, too many broken bones and bullet holes between them for anything ambitious, but Goody still managed to work up a flush, his lips red and swollen when they broke apart, his eyes a brilliant and sparkling blue. 

“ _Chér_ ,” he said, Billy's breath fanning against his face.

“Goody,” Billy murmured,perfectly happy, smile still beaming. “This has been pretty foolish, right?”

“How do you mean?” Goody answered and nipped at his lip lightly.

“If you’d kissed me the first time you wanted we would have got here a lot faster. And your leg not broke so we could do something about it.” 

“I'm not so sure,” Goody said, lazy crooked grin out in full force and he pulled Billy closer, until their foreheads were touching and lowered his voice as if he was telling some great secret. “Because the first time I _wanted_ to kiss you you had already decked five men bare-knuckled in a bar room brawl in Texas.”

“Yeah all right, that was a bad idea,” Billy conceded, nodding. “You should have bought me a drink first.”

 

*

 

Vasquez, who was nearly unharmed (“I was only shot shot a couple of times!” he’d told Goody with a charming grin the first time he’d come to visit) had been out with Red Harvest and Sam, scouting and cleaning up and spreading the word, making sure the Blackstone agent were thoroughly dispersed and that nobody else who could think that Rose Creek was up for grabs knew better. 

When he wasn't riding with Sam and Red, he was helping Emma on the farm and it was always like a whirlwind had stepped in whenever he visited. He smelled of fresh grass and tobacco and the clean prairie and it made Goody feel worse than ever, Billy was the picture of health next to him and even he seemed pale and weak next to Vasquez sunburnt face and blinding grin. He was so good natured though it was hard to mind him, always bringing little things from the outside with him, fresh pleasant smelling wood shavings or grasses with heavy feather-like tops or a sun-warmed rock split by a bullet. Their windowsill was turning into a regular cabinet of curiosities.

He was also helpful in keeping Goody abreast with the happenings and local gossip, and the recovery curve and whereabouts of their companions. He and Billy had been reluctant to leave their room the last few days.

“Faraday he's downstairs now, gambling. Made Horne cart him over, he's not so quick as he was but he's learning,” Vasquez said with something like reluctant appreciation.

“Gambling? He already spending his share of the money?”

“Ay no, this is money he won off Sam.”

“ _Sam_ ’s gambling?” Goody asked in surprise. He knows Sam, and while he can drink like a fish and even chase skirts, and will occasionally play a friendly game for matches and buttons he’s never known him to gamble for money. “Methodist upbringing,” he said, every time and shakes his head.

“No, not gambling cards. When he, Faraday, was getting better he’s very bored so he and Sam, they make stupid bets, makes dare. I dare you for a dollar show your underwear to Ms Leni, I dare you ask the hardware store about a screw loose, ask about what a henway, go bug Billy, go bug Goodnight, stuff like that. Stupid stuff. He tried to get me to play but I’ll stick to cards. Ms Leni told him she’s wiped his behind for him, does he expect her to be shocked at a pair of combinations? I don’t need that kind of trouble.”

“Wait, bug Goodnight and Billy? About what?”

“I don’t know, what did he bug you about when he was here? Sam he said ask him about Billy.”

Billy is sitting next to Goody on the bed, pressing them together from hip to shoulder and he can feel Goody going still at that his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Now Sam said that? What else did Sam say?”

“I don't know _cabron,_ he's your friend. You ask him. Gave Faraday a dollar for it though so I guess it must have been annoying?”

“He’s always annoying,” Goody answered with a grin but his eyes were absent, Billy could practically feel the bolts clicking into place. 

“Vasquez, my good man, you think I could trouble you for a favour?”

 

 

The next time Sam stuck his head through the door Goody set off of a volley of carefully aimed pebbles at him.

“Sam, you meddling son of a bitch! Busybody. Fishwife!”

 Sam laughed, bright and wide, holding his hands up against the onslaught, retreating behind the door. After a while a white hanky waved through the crack.

“Confounded old matchmaker!” Goody shouted, not at all interested in a ceasefire. Sam continued to laugh behind the door, great hiccoughing peals of laughter. 

“Do you deny it?”

“Now how can I deny anything if I can’t get in a word edgewise? Let me in so we can talk about it like grown men?”

“We could,” Goody said sourly, making the last pebble ricochet off the door jamb, hitting Sam solidly in the forehead. “But as it turns out only one of us is an adult and the other is an interfering…”

“An interfering old so-and-so,” Sam finished good naturedly and stepped through the door, still rubbing his head. He sat down on the chair placed between the beds. Billy was out walking, the doctor having finally cleared him for light exercise. 

“Precisely,” Goody agreed, but his mouth was twitching hopelessly under the beard. “That was the worst twenty minutes of my life Sam, and I’m counting, you know the whole…” He waved his hand dismissively. 

“Civil war?” Sam asked, eyebrows raised.

“Weren’t nothing civil about it,” Goody groused.

“Ah, Goody,” Sam said and shook his head, mock serious. “I am sorry it had to come to this, it was an unpleasant task for sure. But it that had to be done, for the greater good. It was a painful thing to watch.” His serious demeanour started to crack, showing flashes of his smile in the bushy sideburns. 

“When Bogue's men came I seriously considered sending the two of you out alone to meet them, since after five minutes of watching you making cow eyes at each other and sighing, they would sure have found pressing reason to take themselves elsewhere.” 

“That is...that is just not true,” Goodnight said, blush spreading over his face.“We did not...there was no cow eyes, no.”

“You were mooning over each other like two love-sick cats in March;” Sam scoffed. “You look at him as if the sun shines out of his ass, and he ain’t much better. Poor Horne didn’t know where to put his face.”

“Horne has manners better lent to a bear den,” Goody said, face still red. “He _never_ knows where to put his face.”

“And how come you’re so sure it was my involvement? Faraday could have found you out all on his own and decided to make enquiries.

Goody rolled his eyes. “I may not know Faraday very well, and while I do admit he improves on acquaintance, his idea of a subtle and cunning plan is charging straight at it with dynamite, however I know you, and you are much more devious. Also, Faraday was as stunned as me when that whole thing slipped out, he didn't have a first idea about it.”

“You have to admit that charging straight at it with dynamite worked though.”

“I implied that it lacked cunning, not efficiency.”

“And did _my_ plan lack efficiency?”

Goody blushed again, a pink wave washing over his ears and neck. “I...hm, I’ll admit that there might have been some conversations that perhaps wouldn’t have taken place under...hrmm, other circumstances.”

Sam crowed triumphantly and slapped his knee.

“You should consider a change in career,” Goody said sourly “Let yourself get fatter and grow a beard and start matchmaking full time.”

“Fatter?” Sam gasped, “Surely I have to get fat before I can get fatter?” 

“I’m not sure if you’ve seen yourself in a mirror lately but the gratitude of the citizens of Rose Creek is definitely hitting your waistline.”

“Goodnight, you wound me, truly you do. The only person here who ought to worry about their waistline is you, laying about all day. Although it has to be said, you have Billy to keep you trim now, he looks like an energetic fellow.” Sam grinned like a shark.

“Get your filthy mind out of the gutter, I have a broken leg.”

“As long as nothing else is broken I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Sam said with a wink.

“Sam!”

 

*

 

Later that night in the dark Billy curled up next to Goody, letting out a sigh as he settled down on the sparse slip of available bed. Fitting themselves together was a careful puzzle of not jostling Goody’s legs (and ribs, and arm, and clavicle) and Billy’s carefully healing and set shoulder. It was worth the effort when Billy was resting with his head in the crook of Goody’s neck, his bad arm tucked between their bodies and Goody’s arm around his shoulders, his hand playing with the hair at the nape of Billy’s neck.

“I talked to Sam today,” Goody told him.

“Hm?” Billy inquiered sleepily. 

“He did put Faraday up to it, so at least he didn’t figure it out on his own. I’d say we’re fairly safe.”

“He knows something now.” Billy pointed out and Goody huffed. 

“All he knows is that I think you’re beautiful, and that you have a short temper, and he’s welcome to tell that tale as long as he likes.”

Billy raised his eyebrows. 

“It has the excellent advantage of being completely true and thus nobody will believe it.”

“It is?”

“Of course, although you make an excellent job at hiding it I can read you well enough to know you’re a short-fused, cranky son of a...”

“No, the other thing,” Billy said. “You think…?”

“I don’t think so, it’s an inevitable truth.” Goody said simply. “You, my friend, is as beautiful as the day is long. The sun rises in the east, and Billy Rocks is beautiful. It is a truth as universally acknowledged as that of a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. It’s probably somewhere in the footnotes in Newton’s _Principia_ . I should probably add it to your introduction at our next match: Get a chance to be beaten by Billy Rocks, mysterious gentleman from the East _and_ the most beautiful man in the world. It has a nice ring to it, eh _chér_?” he said, flashing the gold tooth in a crooked grin.

“You’re overselling it,” Billy said, not quite able to hide the pleased line of his mouth, burrowing his face into Goody’s neck and Goody stroked his hair. 

It was all terribly chaste and sweet but Billy would like to be able to walk up the stairs without having to take a break in the middle, before he even attempts something more serious. He had plans, intents and designs on this and he’ll be damned if they not only will have to halt proceedings but also call for a doctor because he got a bit previous.

It isn't easy to remember though when Goody was lightly tugging at his hair to get him to raise his head so he kan kiss him. Billy groaned and burrowed closer instead, pulling against the hand and his lips find Goody’s throat, kissing and letting his teeth scrape along Goody’s jaw. The noises he made were intriguing, soft little huffs, halfway breathless and involuntary. It made Billy think he could be as voluble in this as he is in everything else and it makes him forget everything, happy to just chase the taste and smell.

He’s halfway into Goody’s lap before he remembers that he really shouldn’t and has to stop himself.

“Sorry,” he said, fuzzily, a little shocked at how easy it was to lose control.

“No, of course, by all means,” Goody, voice was dazed and he’s breathing heavily, clearly not aware of the nonsense coming out of his mouth. Billy untangled himself and laid back down, meekly tucked into the side of Goody’s body and this is nice too, warm and friendly and Goody smells good and it takes far too long to realise that he is slowly, absently rubbing up against Goody’s hip, in languorous, rolling motions. Goody’s hand has migrated from his shoulder to his ass so he guessed he’s not alone to blame. Goody made a noise of complaint when he stilled. 

“Don’t stop,” he grumbled sleepily. “That was nice.”

“No, we’re not going to do anything until you’re better..” Billy mumbled, already forgetting himself and burrowing into Goody’s side, kissing and licking his collarbone, leg stealing over to tangle with Goody’s healthy one.

“Billy, tell me one thing.”

“Mmph, yeah?”

“Does your fire, inexplicable as it may be, for me burn so shallowly that you think you’ll only want one opportunity to quench it?”

It was only long exposure to Goodnights vocabulary that made Billy follow that from beginning to end.

“Uh, no?”

“Aha, so you are perchance waiting to make an honest man out of me, saving the pleasures of the flesh for our marriage bower? 

“What, no!”

“So if it’s not that, and you’re not leaving for the war in the morning, or have to clear town because unknown gambling debts, or are only hanging around to make a conquest out of me, why in God’s name are you acting like we’re only going to get one chance at it?”

“I,” Billy hesitated, feeling a little foolish. “I want it to be perfect. I don't want, I don’t want to start anything I can’t finish, right now there is so much… and your ribs…” he trailed off.

“Perfect eh? That's a reasonable enough request I think,” Goody said and gently untangled himself, arm moving up to rest modestly around Billy's neck and Billy nodded, trying to not feel disappointed in the lack of warm contact.

“You know what makes perfect though, _chèr_?” Goody asked, voice becoming a low rumbling drawl.

“No?” Billy said, and he would deny to his dying day there was anything squeaky or breathless with his voice.

“Practice,” Goody said warmly and twisted close to him, “Practice makes perfect.”

As practice went Billy had to consider it pretty promising. In the end Goody kissed him and petted him with the one hand available until he was sweating and babbling, riding Goody’s hip with scrabbling legs and curling toes. The angle was too awkward for Goody to actually get him off, or even get his hand on him properly, until Billy flopped over on his back, impatiently kicked the covers out of the way and and licked a wet stripe down his own hand before stroking himself, fast and uncaring, whining and arching off the bed as he came, Goody holding on to him kissing and biting his shoulder through all of it.

“That, that wasn't perfect,” he said, wobbly, once Goody had eased him down back into the bed, scattering soft kisses over his forehead and jaw, his handkerchief dipped in the glass of water at his bedside for clean up.

“Imagine how much practice we’ll need,” Goody said smugly, burrowing close. 

“You alright?” Billy asked sleepily and Goody smiled.

“My ribs won't thank me in the morning “and we’d better find a way to cover all the bite marks, unless the good ladies of Rose Creek will think we're suffering a particularly violent flea infestation and scrub us with lye, but yeah. I'm swell. Just swell.”

They settled in quiet for a while, Billy shifting along Goody’s side, yawning so his jaw hurt.

“We should pay Sam back though,” Goody said, sounding thoughtful. “We really should.”

“I could stab him?” Billy asked hopefully, eager when the opportunity presented itself.

“What, no!, We’re not going to stab him, he did do us a favour, after all,” Goody scoffed. After a little while he added in a very thoughtful tone, “We’re going to have to do something much,  _much,_ worse.”

 

*

 

Sam was outside currying Horse in the early evening, just enjoying the way the sky faded from red to pink and pale gold and the day’s heat slowly dying away. The crickets were singing endlessly and it was satisfying to watch the horses coat go from dusty and grimy to sleek.

He didn’t think much of it when Red Harvest sought him out, silent as a cat, sitting down at the stable door, watching the sky with him. The young man had become a friend in the past few weeks, riding patrol with Sam and Vasquez and he’d found him to be a solid and true companion, even if some days he would only say three words between sunrise and sunset.

Once you got him talking though, about something he found interesting or knew well he could be quite the chatterbox. Sam concluded that Red Harvest only talked when he felt he had something to say, a quality Sam could admire.

He had put away the brush and was on to checking Horse’s legs and cleaning his hooves before Red Harvest spoke.

“I have a few questions?”

“Yeah, what about?” Sam asked, unsuspecting, and really, Sam should have realised something was going on because Red was not the kind of person to admit ignorance about anything. Sam had once watched him surreptitiously poking at a bun for half an hour rather than admit to not knowing what it was. Red Harvest was looking away towards the horizon thoughtfully, the evening seemed to smudge some of the harshness from his features, instead rendering him young and pensive.

“When I left the people I was already considered a man in many ways,” he said.” My family would've hardly let me go otherwise, but there was still a few things the elders hadn't explained to me, maybe I could talk to you?”

Sam pulled his ear in confusion. “Well, I ain't your elder exactly, but shoot. What's on your mind?”

There was something just a touch theatrical about Red Harvest’s sigh, before he turned his head, his eyes liquid and earnest.

“I have questions, about men and women. About the marriage bed.”

Sam froze in horror. “That um, what, what about?” he stuttered, voice hoarse, ears somewhat unable to process.

“The marriage bed,” Red Harvest repeated dutifully and Sam sputtered.

“What what kind of questions?”

“Specifically about, well, the mechanics?” Red Harvest asked serenely. “And the process?”

“The process? Well uh...uh, I guess I've never given it that much thought, it just… um, naturally...and,” Sam made a vague hand gesture made to encompass the whole complicated business of men, women and the marriage bed.

“I’ve heard there is embracing?” Red Harvest said and Sam had the horrible feeling that if he’d been much for writing he’d be taking notes.

“It um, can be yes. Generally,” Sam stuttered, throat dry as dust 

“I see, is that standing or lying down? Or even sitting?”

“Ah well there is..It can be, ” Sam said, feeling cold sweat slip down his back. “It's generally a very physical experience,” he lit on at last, relieved, to have found something to say and Red Harvest nodded. 

“Like when Horne embraced us when we returned from the scouting last week.” Red said placidly. “That was a very physical experience.”

“Yes but no, not that wasn't, that is not the same thing” Sam babbled and Red looked puzzled.

“But you said it was embracing?” he asked. 

“Yes but generally there is more…”

“More?”

Sams hands made a motion again.

“Flapping? Flying?” Red guessed, head cocked to the side.

“Less clothing,” Sam said, mortified. 

“And babies?” Red Harvest said with horrible, inquisitive eagerness.

“Well, babies,” Sam floundered. "You see, babies…”

“Is that where the stork comes in? I thought maybe that was the bird? You know, where the mother makes a wish on a star and the stork comes to deliver the baby under a cabbage leaf and the mother goes out to collect it in the morning?”

“Yes,” Sam said, like a coward. “That is exactly what happens.”

Red Harvest leaned back and squinted at him, not even a touch of mischief in his handsome face.

“Really?” he said. “Because _I_ was under the impression that man and woman came together and procreated, and that women grew children in their bodies before giving birth to them, so I was naturally very confused when I found out that this isn’t how it works at all. However, your friend Goodnight was very helpful on that point when I talked to him about it and he said if I had _any_ questions at all you’d be more than happy to answer them.”

Sam gaped at him and Red Harvest looked at him with his young face shining with naivety and innocence and then Sam swore with emphasis, tossing his hat into the dust.

“That Cajun son of a _bitch!_ ”Red Harvest broke out in a peals of laughter. Sam felt he really should have remembered that Red Harvest was a little shit who’d pretended not to speak English for a week just because he thought it was amusing.

 “And you! You vily young rattlesnake! I can’t believe they got you up to this! I thought you had dignity! Integrity! I just lost ten years of my life!”

Red Harvest shrugged unrepentant. “Rocks promised me he’d teach me how to throw a knife.” He was quiet for a while. “But I’d probably done it anyway,” he confessed. “The look on your face was pretty funny.”

 

 

After their candle had been extinguished and dark settled over their room Billy tiptoed over to Goody’s bed, slotting into what was now his usual place by Goody’s side. He yawned sleepily as he settled, Goody’s arm coming round his back.

“I wish I coulda seen it,” Goody said wistfully and Billy chuckled softly. 

“You can be there when we get back on Faraday,” he promised, and kissed Goody’s. Quiet settled for a while, before Goody spoke again, almost asleep.

“What’re we going to do with Faraday?”

Billy yawned and shrugged. “Maybe stab him? Red Harvest going to need a target for knife throwing.”

Goody made a thoughtful sound and kissed the top of Billy’s head before closing his eyes, already starting to drift off.

“I’ll take it into consideration, _chér_.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> There are a number of egrerious anachronisms in this fic but I think the most notable ones are Goody referring to the Civil War as the Civil War, and quoting Jane Austen, as that quote at the time (and place) probably wasn't a truth universally acknowleged. 
> 
> The other is Red Harvest alluding to the idea of the stork bringing babies as that version of the myth is European and was poplularized in Victorian middle and upper class families and while it is possible that RH has heard stories of the stork bringing babies, its not very probable that he'd ever heard of the version he's telling here.
> 
> Also the idea of same sex attraction as an inclination or predisposition was not around at the time.
> 
> Has Goody fractured his left arm or his right arm? Who knows, its one or the other anyway.
> 
> The title and line quoted in the beginning from Much Ado About Nothings is said by Don Pedro, who of course, was played by Denzel Washington in the 1993 film (I'm Old, y'all). 
> 
> Come and yell at me about how wrong I am about Red Harvest and storks at hellolittleogre.tumblr.com (I'm prepared to be told I'm very wrong)


End file.
